The Invasion Domestic
by calciseptine
Summary: Prussia/Canada. A century ago, if someone had told Gilbert that he would one day be playing domestic with a peaceful nation, he would have laughed in their face—and then invaded their vital regions for good measure. For qualapec.


**Story Title**: The Invasion Domestic  
**Rated**: PG-13 for language, vague sexual content, and rampant domesticity  
**Status**: Complete // 5700+  
**Summary**: [Prussia/Canada] A century ago, if someone had told Gilbert that he would one day be spending most of his time halfway across the planet playing domestic with a peaceful nation, he would have laughed in their face—and then invaded their vital regions for good measure.  
**Steve's Notes**: Written for the Valentine's Day exchange over at the **prussiaxcanada** community on LiveJournal for **qualapec**. She requested a fic where Gilbert slipped into a more domestic role in his relationship with Matthew, while Matthew was the one who put on the suit and tie to go to meetings. I may or may not have squeezed all the fluff from marrow of my bones and then thrown up rainbows afterwards to complete this story. Many thanks and many kisses to my wife, **o0o_faor_o0o**, for her last minute beta skills.  
**Disclaimer**: _Axis Powers Hetalia_ © Himaruya Hidekaz

* * *

The alarm on the bedside table goes off at seven in the morning, every weekday morning save for vacations and national holidays. It beeps shrilly twice before a hand shoots out from underneath the goose feather duvet to hit the snooze button, retreating as swiftly as it appeared. Five minutes later, when the alarm goes off again, a strawberry blond and groggy head briefly ventures out from the warm cocoon of blankets to glare myopically at the neon green numbers before the snooze is hit a second time. The man knows he shouldn't, but he settles back into the cotton sheets and throws an arm and leg around his still sleeping lover's waist.

The next five minutes are quiet and warm. Barely cognizant, Canada struggles to keep his eyes open while Prussia—limbs akimbo and snoring faintly—dreams on. During the warmer months between late spring and early fall, staying awake after the second alarm is easier, but the colder temperatures bring a greater reluctance to leave the comfortable bed and Prussia's body heat. Despite this, however, Canada makes sure to get up at 7:10 a.m. when the third and final round of beeps effectively severs him from the last bonds of sleep, his low blood pressure be damned.

"Fuckin' clock," Prussia mumbles as Canada extracts himself, opening one baleful red eye. "Fuckin' annoying..."

Canada agrees with a yawn, then shuffles across the cold, hardwood floors to the bathroom. He takes a near scalding shower that turns his skin pink, brushes and flosses his teeth, trims back a bit of dark gold stubble, and is dressed in a professional navy suit and tie by 7:45 a.m. The bed is an empty tangle of sheets; the smell of coffee and sausages wafts up from the kitchen, making Canada's stomach rumble.

Down in the kitchen, Prussia is scraping fluffy scrambled eggs with mushroom and pepper from a frying pan onto a couple plates already loaded with his 'Most Awesome Morning Wurst' and thick slices of golden brown toast. He wears nothing but the rumpled plaid flannel bottoms he pilfered from Canada months ago and his short, white hair is unruly, the back sticking up at every angle like the ruffled feathers of the chicks he keeps. Kumajirou sits on his haunches by Prussia's bare feet, an imploring paw on Prussia's calf; Prussia can never resist sneaking the small bear a meat link or five, and Kumajirou knows it.

"Morning Gil," Canada says, pressing a quick kiss against Prussia's naked shoulder. "Did you want a cup of coffee, too?"

"_Ja_, Matt—give me the awesome cup," Prussia says as Canada rummages through the cupboard. Canada nearly rolls his eyes; he cottoned onto the fact that Prussia will only drink coffee from the "Cup of Awesomeness"—an ancient red cup with a handle Canada is sure has broken off more than once. Canada adds a spoonful of cocoa powder to each cup, and stirs in plenty of half and half into Prussia's to dilute the strong roast. Prussia takes it with an easy smile when they sit down at the kitchen table, their knees knocking. Prussia smothers his toast in butter and pours maple syrup onto his sausages (two of which are smuggled to a big-eyed Kumajirou) while Canada opts for jam and some ketchup.

By 8:15 a.m., the large pot of coffee is empty, the dishes have been rinsed off and loaded into the washer, and Kumajirou has ambled to the living room to sleep off a minor food coma on the ottoman. Prussia waylays Canada to adjust his somewhat sloppy tie—"You've been doing this for how long, Matt?" he teases—and give him a proper kiss goodbye—"Gil," Canada gasps, "Gil, I'm meeting with the ambassador at n—_nngh_!"

"I'll call you if I'm going to be late," Canada says when he finally wriggles out from between the foyer wall and a half-naked Prussia. "I'll see you later tonight, okay?"

In reply, Prussia playfully swats Canada's rear on his way out the door and, this time, Canada doesn't refrain from rolling his eyes.

* * *

Unlike most other nations, who glossed over Canada's presence as though the other nation were invisible, Prussia recognized Canada with ease when they came into rare contact at World Summit meetings. Maybe this was because, like Canada, Prussia was an ignored nation—most questions and serious matters were deferred to his younger brother, an arrangement that suited Prussia, who had never had a head for negotiation or paperwork, just fine—or maybe it was because Canada always remembered to bring a bottle of his best maple syrup to the meetings, and Prussia never forgot anyone who brought him delicious food.

Or, a little voice in the back of Prussia mind whispered when he was being more honest with himself, it was because Canada was one of the cutest damned nations he had ever laid eyes on.

It was the third day of what promised to become the longest summit in history (France had already goaded England into a shouting match just shy of a fist fight and America was only halfway through his ridiculous, heroic plans to save the world from everything both real and imagined), and they broke for an hour long recess when Northern and Southern Italy demanded their siestas (Germany's normally iron will crumbled the moment Feliciano's bottom lip quivered). Prussia, after harassing Austria and Hungary for the first half of the recess, wandered around the building aimlessly when he ran, quite literally, into another nation. They fell in a tangle of limbs to the floor, Prussia's head cracked against the hard floor, and the other nation landed squarely on Prussia's abdomen, knocking all the air out of his lungs.

"Oh my god, Prussia, are you okay?" a somewhat familiar voice asked as he wheezed. "Oh, I'm really, really sorry about that! I wasn't paying attention to where I was going."

When Prussia cracked open an eyelid, he found that Canada's face was only inches from his own. A strand of his harried, strawberry blond hair swept across his cheek and his eyebrows were furrowed in worry, forming a small crease between his wide, violet-blue eyes; he chewed on his bottom lip as he gingerly reached around to the back of Prussia's head. Prussia was vaguely aware of a dull, throbbing pain radiating from his occiput and Canada speaking softly, but most of his focus was riveted on Canada's fingertips against his scalp and Canada's slender thighs straddling his waist. He grasped Canada's hips, feels the bone and heat just below the nondescript brown pants, and knew he probably had a pretty not awesome expression on his face.

"Prussia," Canada said, seemingly unaware that he was nearly being groped. "Prussia, are you even listening to me? I think you have a concussion."

"Nah," Prussia replied distractedly. "Just had the wind knocked out of me. Give me a minute."

Canada looked sweetly unsure, but he nodded anyway. Prussia nearly preened when the other nation didn't extract himself immediately; Canada continued to rub soothing circles into his scalp and Prussia mimicked the action with the pads of his thumbs against Canada's pelvis. Prussia struggled in vain to neither smile and sigh like an idiot—Canada, he mentally amended, was not just one of the cutest nations on the planet, but _the_ cutest nation in the world, _hands fuckin' __down_—nor take any more physical advantage of the situation than he already was, which he just barely managed.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Canada asked when a couple minutes have passed, and he seemed satisfied that Prussia isn't going to pass out or something equally unpleasant. Prussia reluctantly released his grip on Canada's hips as the other nation got to his feet and extended a hand to help Prussia to his. The world tilted on its axis for a split second and the slow bloom of a headache made itself known, but otherwise, Prussia was fine. "There's nothing I can do for you?"

"Well," Prussia drawled slowly, an idea rapidly forming in his brain. "In Germany, you would treat me to a drink or two. I know a good place just down the street, if you wanted."

When Canada's face lit up, Prussia almost felt bad enough for the white lie to rescind on it.

_Almost_.

* * *

After a quick shower, Prussia towels his short hair dry and changes into a pair of jeans, wool socks, and a thick, cable knit, ivory sweater to fend off the February cold that settles in Ottawa. Going back downstairs, he enters the tile floor mudroom where they keep the food for Kumajirou and the chicks; Kumajirou's bowl of dry, veterinarian subscribed food is half full, so Prussia only fills the small bowl of seed for the chicks and replaces the dish of stale water with a fresh one. A handful of the chicks, a nest of yellow feathers in the bed Kumajirou rarely uses, wake up and start to peep at Prussia happily, and he rubs each of their heads affectionately with a finger.

Once he's done with that, Prussia goes back into the kitchen. He looks through the fridge, freezer, and pantry, scribbling down a short shopping list in German on a page of small yellow notebook paper; he sticks the list in his back pocket along with his wallet. He double checks to make sure the coffee pot is off, that Kumajirou and all the chicks are accounted for, and that he didn't leave the fan in the upstairs bathroom on before he prepares to leave. In the foyer, he puts on a pair of dark boots, ties a red scarf around his neck, throws on a hat, shrugs into his warm, black wool pea coat, and grabs his soft leather gloves from the shelf inside the closet.

It's cold outside, but there's no wind and the brisk air doesn't sting Prussia's lungs, so he decides to walk the ten blocks to the local grocery store. He waves to few people he knows en route and stops, once, to talk to a burly man who is the captain of a local hockey team Canada supports. At the grocery store, the teenage girl behind the counter attempts to flirt with him in nasal, broken English (like she always does) until her grandmother thwacks her upside the head with a rolled up magazine and berates her in rapid French (like she always does); Prussia's French is subpar, but he's pretty sure he hears the word "boyfriend" and "adorable" thrown in (like he usually does).

By the time Prussia makes it back home, it's almost noon. He puts the groceries away in their respective places, then makes himself a quick Reuben in the toaster oven. He drinks it with a bottle of Heineken and gives a slice of corned beef to a pouting Kumajirou, who wakes up long enough to beg for food; the chicks follow the small bear in a train, skittering over each other and the tile floor. Prussia laughs at their antics and crumbles a bit of marbled rye in his hand, crouching low so the chicks can pick the scraps out of his palm.

When lunch is finished, Gilbert washes a few of the larger dishes by hand and sets them out to dry. He throws a load of laundry into the washer and picks out a few suits of Canada's he knows need to be taken to the cleaners. He tidies up the mostly clean living room—Kumajirou is asleep on the ottoman again, a heap of chicks against the curl of his warm belly—and calls his brother in order to harass him into sending over a crate of Prussia's favorite German beer. Halfway through the conversation, Italy commandeers the phone and natters on about everything and nothing until Germany wrestles his mobile back long enough to tell Prussia they have dinner reservations somewhere and need to leave or it will be cancelled.

"_Und bruder?_" Germany says cryptically just before he hangs up without an explanation. "_Glückwünsche_."

* * *

Prussia was not accustomed to taking it slow. He has always taken what he wanted through brutal strength and sheer determination; he never cared to take his time nor has he ever had the patience to. Yet with "Call me Matt" Canada, who had trouble walking in a straight line by the time they were done at the bar, Prussia was surprisingly okay with no more than a kiss stolen from the frantic pulse against Canada's throat when they stumbled back to the hotel. Canada giggled, touched Prussia's shoulders and chest with imploring fingers, and nuzzled his hot face into the crook of Prussia's neck, but Prussia, tipsy but mostly sober, simply got Canada out of his brown suit coat, polished shoes, and restrictive tie before tucking him into bed and leaving.

The next morning, Prussia whipped up his patent Hangover breakfast from the odds and ends the continental breakfast served in the main lobby. He felt momentarily ridiculous when Germany raised an eyebrow at him (a moment that was broken when Italy came charging into the room and attached himself like an octopus to Germany's torso) but the flustered smile and pink blush Canada tried to hide more than made up for it.

The World Summit lasted ten more days, and Prussia and Canada went out together nearly every night. Canada, with his low tolerance for foreign alcohol, refused to drink again; he maintained a certain, professional distance from Prussia almost completely opposite of the easy affection he showed the first night. It would have been disappointing if Canada didn't respond to his flirting, sometimes with a flush and a stammer, sometimes with an equally sly quip and subtle grin.

"It wasn't the beer, was it?" Canada blurted out the final day of the Summit. They were at a café that stayed open until midnight, out on the patio enjoying the gentle cool of the night; Canada could drink coffee like it was water and Prussia's sweet tooth loved the Italian sodas with a scoop of ice cream. "When you kissed me last week, it wasn't just the alcohol, was it?"

Prussia was sure "Huh?" wasn't an answer.

"I mean, I'm pretty sure I didn't imagine it," Canada continued, his face flushing darker and darker. "I know I overdid it, but you make me so nervous sometimes because I—I really like you and you made me really nervous, and it became easier and easier to be with you the more I drank, and I thought—well, I wasn't really thinking, you know, but you didn't push me away and... you didn't do anything afterwards, and—you don't like me like that, do you? Oh god, y-you don't, do you—"

Canada was halfway out of his seat by the time Prussia's fingers curled around his wrist and pulled him back. Unbalanced, Canada's elbow hit the table and nearly knocked it over, and Prussia's drink upended into his lap. Prussia yelped at the sudden cold and leapt up, drawing the attention of everyone around them; Canada began to spew profuse apologies, following Prussia into the bathroom.

"You're a complete dumbass," Prussia told Canada as he ran a handful of paper towels underneath the sink, and patted the stick off his tailored pants. From the corner of his eye, he saw Canada's shoulders slump as he began to twist his hands around one another like he always did when he was uncomfortable.

"I am sorry," Canada whispered. His voice was rough as though he were about to cry, but the shine of fluorescent light off his glasses made it difficult to tell if he had tears in his eyes. "I... I'll pay for your suit. I probably ruined it."

"Probably," Prussia snapped as he threw the paper towels into the trash bin. Canada flinched at the almost violent action. "But I don't care about the fuckin' _pants_, Matt."

Prussia was positive "Eh?" was as useful an answer as "Huh?", but he could have cared less as he braced one forearm against the tile wall, wove his fingers into the long strands of hair at the nape of Canada's neck, and pulled him into a kiss that was a gentle counterpoint to the damp thigh he shoved between Canada's thigh. Canada's mouth trembled against his own before the other nation gasped, "Oh!", and surged upwards against Prussia's chest, fingers tightening against the fabric. It degraded quickly when Canada accepted the press of Prussia's tongue past the hot seam of his lips, slipping against his teeth and gums. He tasted vestigially of the sweet, caramel cappuccino he had been drinking and Prussia attempted to suck the bit last of the flavor away.

"You're an idiot," Prussia growled against the hollow of Canada's throat when he finally pulled away to catch his breath. Canada's eyes were hooded and sparkling, his lips swollen, his hair mussed, and his glasses askew. "I've wanted to do that all damn week."

"Well," Canada replied just as huskily after a silent, contemplative moment, tilting his head to the side for another kiss. "We have a lot to make up for, eh?"

* * *

Around five, after he finishes folding the laundry, Prussia cracks open a second bottle of Heineken and lets Kumajirou out into the enclosed backyard to run around in the snow. Some of the braver chicks follow the small bear outside, but immediately start peeping as soon as their scaly feet get cold. Prussia laughs as he rescues several from the deep snow; they shake their feathers and puff them out in disgruntlement, flitting back into the warmth of the house as soon as Prussia puts them back on the shoveled wood porch.

Kumajirou is wriggling on his back when Canada calls. "You let Kumajirou out in this slush, didn't you," Canada says with a sigh; it isn't really a question. "He's going to be soaking wet by the time he gets back in and leave puddles all over the floor."

"Hey now," Prussia replies indignantly. "I'll dry him off with a towel when he gets done this time."

"Yeah!" Canada chuckles softly. "_This time_."

"I said I was sorry," Prussia grumbles good-naturedly. "Anyway, how was your meeting with the ambassador? Should I start dinner, or are they going to keep you again? I was thinking about making _käsespätzle_ with the _sauerbraten_ I have marinating in the fridge."

"Yeah, that sounds delicious Gil," Canada says. "I'm starving. I had a small lunch with the ambassador and Yong Soo at this restaurant they're crazy about, but that feels like it was centuries ago. We got enough done, considering Yong Soo's attention span, and we still have a lot to discuss, but nothing was important enough to keep me any longer."

"Awesome!" Prussia exclaims and almost ends the short conversation there when he suddenly remembers his brother's phone call. "Hey, Matt, I called my brother earlier today, to bug him about that case of _Köstritzer_ I wanted him to send over? Remember?"

"Yeah, I remember. What about it?"

"Well, just before I got off the phone with him, he congratulated me for no reason. Then he hung up before I could ask him why, and didn't pick up his damn phone when I called him back. How weird is that?" On the other end of the line, Canada suddenly releases a small hiss that Prussia has learned—through much trial and even more error—is actually a small French curse he lets out only when he's irritated. "Matt?" he asks warily, instantly suspicious of his brother and his boyfriend. "What are you and West up to?"

"Nothing, Gil," Canada replies too hastily. "I, uhh, gotta go. I'm getting into the car and traffic is crazy downtown."

"Uh huh," Prussia deadpans. "I believe you."

Then, after a moment's hesitation, Canada sighs. "I'll tell you later, Gil."

"Damn straight," Prussia crows. "_Bis dann_."

"Yeah," Canada says weakly. "See you soon."

* * *

The invasion began with a spare toothbrush.

It was probably the slowest, most innocuous invasion Prussia had ever been involved with. Truth be told, he wasn't even _aware_ that he was part of said invasion nor was he conscious of the fact that his cavalry consisted of a few pairs of jeans and socks, his favorite deodorant and a small bottle of cologne he got from Italy, an extra set of sneakers, a pack of disposable German razors, and three to three dozen bottles of dark _Köstritzer_ beer (supplemented by the emergency Heineken) in the pantry. It was all so innocent and completely unintentional that, when Canada turned to him one day after they had been seeing each other for nearly two years and said, "Do you just want to move in already?" Prussia was so surprised that, for the first time in his long life, he reacted in a Not So Awesome Way.

Put simply, Prussia got up and left.

Prussia went to France's house because France never asked questions; indeed, France had just taken one look at him, heaved a sigh, and let him in through the door. They got drunk later that night on expensive wine, brawled a bit using pillows as weapons as they reminisced about the Middle Ages, and successfully, if not gracefully, Avoided The Topic At Hand. The morning after he woke up alone and with a fierce hangover; he found himself missing the warmth of Canada against his side and, for a terrifying moment, believed his old age was making him soft. He rectified this situation by striking poses in front of a full length mirror for an hour to admire his awesome, manly, and anything but soft physique before roping France into playing pranks on (a somewhat deserving) Austria. France was excellent at pretending nothing was wrong; Prussia was even better.

It wasn't until the fifth day at France's house that someone found him. Correction: It wasn't until the fifth day of free-loading at France's house and making a general nuisance of himself that France got tired of Prussia's increasingly destructive melancholy and called Spain. Prussia had been shoveling France's rich food into his mouth when Spain had practically skipped into the room, causing him to choke on whatever he was in the process of swallowing. France pretended to not notice nasty looks that promised a great deal of pain and suffering Prussia shot him before Spain merrily dragged him kicking and cussing from the dining room.

"You see my friend," Spain began as though he were a rather dense individual commenting on the weather. "This commitment issue of yours has gotten quite out of hand."

The thing Prussia had learned early on from his association with Spain was that, while the smiling, laid-back nation may have seemed like the best friend/brother that you never had, the true reality was that he was pure, undiluted evil. He drove his hand into the chest of the matter, ripped out its heart, and _devoured_ it with an inordinate amount glee right in front of your horrified eyes as though he were a demon from hell. The worst part about this experience, however, was that by the time he had finished, _you_ were the one who felt like the biggest scum sucking bottom feeder on the face of the planet, and Spain was completely innocent of everything and anything.

Prussia, for all his knowledge of Spain's Super Secret Technique of Doom, was no exception.

Before moving in with his brother earlier in the century, Prussia had never shared a house with anyone; however, living with West wasn't really sharing a house as it was just happening to be in the same house at the same time. Prussia was terrified by the level of intimacy really sharing a house implied; yeah, he practically lived at Canada's house as it was, but he could leave any time he wanted to without the obligation of returning. If he moved in with Canada that would be his _home_ and, if it all went south—which things usually did when Prussia was involved—he'd have to go find another one. He had already done that once, and once, in his opinion, had been more than enough.

It took all of three hours after France unleashed Spain upon him for Prussia to crawl back to Canada. He missed the other nation so horribly it felt like an ache had permanently settled into his chest, but ringing Canada's doorbell was still one of the hardest things Prussia had ever done. He expected lots of shouting (Canada) and lots of apologizing (him), but Canada had just opened the door and smiled softly at him.

"I'm making pancakes," Canada had said.

And it might have been the smell of said pancakes coming from the kitchen, or it might have been the way Canada gently accepted him even though he was the biggest scum sucking bottom feeder on the face of the planet, but, as he threw his arms around the strawberry blond man and held on to him fast, Prussia thought, _Matt, I fucking **love** you._

* * *

Dinner is a quiet affair that goes like this: Prussia tries to wheedle the secret information between his boyfriend and his brother out by asking directly, Canada talks about his day with South Korea and the ambassador, Prussia tries to wheedle the secret information between his boyfriend and his brother out by being subtle, Kumajirou begs for scraps, and Prussia stops trying to wheedle the secret information between his boyfriend and his brother out because, whatever nefarious scheme they've concocted, Prussia may or may not have an bunker in an undisclosed location in case of a zombie apocalypse that he can hang out in for a couple months if push comes to shove.

"Gil," Canada says as they clear the table. He's not looking Prussia in the eye, keeping his gaze glued firmly on their brightly colored plates. "I'm going to tell you, I swear. But... can we watch a movie first? I just want to unwind a bit before I say anything."

Prussia almost frowns as he places the last plate into the dishwasher; Canada is a polite person, but after five years of living together, it's a rare occurence when he doesn't just come out and say what he wants to. "Sure," Prussia says as he rinses off his hands and towels them dry. "But I get to pick the movie, okay?"

"Of course," Canada smiles. "I'm going to get a soda from downstairs; do you want anything?"

"One of the _Köstritzer_ would be awesome."

As Canada goes downstairs to grab their drinks, Prussia selects a DVD from a small collection and slips into the player. It's one of America's Hollywood thrillers, filled with explosions and men with vendettas; it's one of Prussia's favorites, and Canada affectionately rolls his eyes when he comes up and sees the familiar opening credits on the television. The both of them sit on the couch while Kumajirou forgoes his usual perch on the ottoman to squeeze between Prussia and Canada, where Canada will absently rub his belly if he sits close enough. The chicks flutter station themselves in a line on the backrest of the couch, save for one, which always mistakes Prussia head for a convenient roost.

The movie, which is meant to keep Canada's brain off whatever he wants to tell Prussia, doesn't work. Canada becomes more and more fidgety as the movie progresses, and by the twentieth major explosion, Prussia grabs the remote and hits the pause button. He then pushes Kumajirou off the couch—the bear rolls onto the ground with little more than small grunt, and all the chicks, including the one on Prussia's head, flutter down to join him—and maneuvers the other man until he's sitting between Prussia's thighs, his legs over Prussia's legs, and his knees against Prussia's rib cage.

"Alright," Prussia says, tapping the underside of Canada's chin up so they're looking at one another. "Just tell me what you need to, because, damnit Matt, you're starting to make _me_ nervous."

"I'm sorry," Canada apologizes, twisting the cuffs of his favorite red hoodie he changed into when he got home between his fingers. "It's just... you know I love you, right?"

"_Ja_," Prussia says tenderly and kisses the tip of Canada's slightly upturned nose. They don't say it often, but they mean it when they do.

"We've been together for a long time. Well, not a long time, you know, because nine years really isn't much for nations, but in human terms it _is_ a pretty long time. Anyway, it's just that I wanted to do something for awhile now, and I didn't know what to do or how to go about it or if it was even appropriate to do, so I asked your brother about it and he thinks it's a pretty good idea and all. I mean, it'll be official and everything—well, errr, as official as it can get between nations like us. I mean, it is a little different for us, but times are changing and... and I think that we should change too, you know?"

Canada is adorable, sitting there looking up at Gilbert from underneath the curl of his eyelashes, a pink blush staining his cheeks and the tips of his ears. Even in the dim light, the irises of his eyes seem impossibly violet. Prussia bumps their foreheads together and slips his arms around Canada's slender waist, picking up his torso and pulling him closer until their chests are nearly touching. Canada's hands are twisting inside the pouch of his hoodie.

"Matt," Prussia laughs lightly. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh," Canada says. "Well, ahh—fuck it."

Quite suddenly, there's a simple gold ring between them.

"I want you to marry me, Gil," Canada begins after a deep breath. "I want to spend the rest of my unnatural life with you. I want to wake up each morning next to you and eat your 'Most Awesome Morning Wurst' and pretend not to notice when you slip Kumajirou meat he shouldn't be eating because it's bad for him. I want you to fix my tie because I can't get it no matter how hard I try, and I want you to kiss me goodbye every morning I have to leave for work. I want to come home and see you drinking Heineken even though I know you just want to drink _Köstritzer_, and I want to get exasperated when you forget to dry Kumajirou after he plays in the snow. I want you to think I don't know about the secret zombie bunker or that you love to cook even if it isn't awesome or that you drink maple syrup directly from the bottle. I want every day for the rest of my life to have you in it, because any day you aren't a part of, I don't feel like I'm living."

Prussia is sure "Huh?" isn't the answer Canada is looking for.

"Idiot," Canada smiles then, and his smile is so wonderful and beautiful and fucking perfect that Prussia can't help but hold the other man as tight as he can.

And he's never, _ever_, going to let go.

* * *

"Hey Matt?" Prussia said one hot summer day as they lounged outside on the porch eating watermelon and spitting the seeds as far as they could into the grass; the chicks chased after them and pecked the shells open. Kumajirou had taken shelter underneath the shade of the large oak, lying on his back with his limbs spread out as far away from his body possible.

"Yeah Gil?" Canada replied distractedly. He was stripped down to a pair of camouflage cargos cut off just above the knee and wore one of Prussia's just-too-big wife beaters; he had pulled his shoulder length hair up off his neck into a stubby ponytail at the base of his skull. The summer sun had freckled his shoulders and the bridge of his nose, and the heat kept a permanent flush in his cheeks. When Prussia stared at him for too long without answering, Canada cocked his head to the side and caused a flyaway length of hair to stick to the sweaty curve of his jaw. Prussia reached out to brush it away; his hand lingered, his thumb against the swell of Canada's lower lip.

"I love you," Prussia said simply.

The lashes of Canada's eyes fluttered against the crests of his cheeks and his watermelon slick mouth parted with a small, nearly insignificant smack. Prussia traced the curve of it with the rough pad of his thumb; he dipped his head and traced it again with his tongue. The sweet, fresh taste of Canada's body and the echo of Canada's choked, elated gasp, Prussia suddenly, fiercely, instinctively knew, would stay with him forever.

And—as the sun fell past its zenith, as Canada's hands trembled against the thunder of his heart in his rib cage, as Canada whispered his name again and again and again—Prussia decided that forever wasn't nearly long enough.

* * *

_The alarm will go off at seven in the morning. Canada will hit the snooze twice before slinking off to the shower; without him curled against his side, Prussia will have no reason to linger in the cooling bed. He will shuffle downstairs, start breakfast and a large pot of coffee, and feed the scraps of his 'Most Awesome Morning Wurst' to a pleading Kumajirou. He will adjust Canada's hopelessly knotted tie before the other nation leaves for work and will give him a proper kiss goodbye, much to Canada's exasperation._

__

An hour later, Prussia will have showered, dressed, taken care of Kumajirou and the chicks, and have a small shopping list tucked into the back pocket of his jeans with his wallet. It will be cold out, but not too cold, so he will bundle up and walk ten blocks to the local grocery store, where he will be waylaid en route by a couple familiar faces. When he reaches his destination, the teenage girl behind the counter will try to flirt with Prussia in nasal, broken English as she always does, and her grandmother will smack her upside the head with a rolled up magazine and berate her in rapid French as she always does. Prussia's French will still be subpar, but he will hear the words "adorable" and "husband" thrown into the diatribe.

_And those words, Prussia will think, will be the only French he ever needs to know._

* * *

**Translation Notes**:  
_Glückwünsche_ is German for congratulations  
_bis dann_ roughly means bye  
_Köstritzer_ is a brand of dark beer that has been brewed since 1543  
_Sauerbraten_ is a (delicious) traditional German pot roast typically served with a potato-based side and red cabbage  
_Käsespätzle_ is a type of soft potato noodle made with cheese and fried onion

* * *

end.


End file.
